


Reverse Engineered Romance

by HOG_MANAGER



Category: All Elite Wrestling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst, Break Up, Depression, M/M, Post-Break Up, not described in detail (in chapter one at least) but mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26602729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HOG_MANAGER/pseuds/HOG_MANAGER
Summary: "Reverse engineering, also called back engineering, is the process by which a man-made object is deconstructed to reveal its designs, architecture, code or to extract knowledge from the object"-Wikipedia
Relationships: Orange Cassidy/Chuck Taylor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	1. The Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration: Pork Soda by Glass Animals.

It had been almost a year since Chuck’s world got shattered beyond recognition. He was well past the point of trying not to be overdramatic. He knew exactly what he had lost, and how much it gutted him, down to the bone. How empty it left him, empty like the room he was curled up on the floor of, empty like the bourbon bottle that laid beside him. Empty like the year since Orange left him. 

He had tried to deflect his pain with empty lines: “we were never  _ really _ together, it was just good sex from a guy as conveniently desperate and horny as you are, it wasn’t anything special, you can replace him, at least you’re still friends with the guy.” That last one stung more than he thought it would. Seeing him every week, having to perform on Dynamite as if that didn’t burn him. As if the past decade of loving him had been nothing. 

Ugh.  _ Loving him. _ Chuck picked up the empty bottle, rolling to face the far wall, and threw it as hard as he could. The sound of shattering provided instantaneous catharsis, the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he felt. His mind was cloudy, his senses dulled with an absolutely reckless amount of booze. It was how he’d spent most nights lately, just trying to dull the downright mind numbing depression that had been bodying him more and more as the months dragged on. But the sudden noise he created pierced that haze, giving him something tangible to focus on. Throwing the bottle was like an emergency break on his train of thought, and he welcomed the crash of that halting momentum. He needed it. 

Catharsis immediately was overshadowed by self awareness and regret. Chuck hadn’t even realized his shitty dog had joined him in Orange’s old room until he heard Walter yelp in response to the sudden noise. Thankfully he was nowhere near the path of Chuck’s angsty projectile. He still felt like a dick for startling his dog though. Walter, either unable to hold a grudge or simply not realizing the sound was Chuck’s fault ran over and curled up against him. Chuck pulled him onto his chest as he rolled flat onto his back, stroking the shaking dog and muttering apologies he was sure the little guy would understand. Obviously Walter didn’t know the language, but it’s the thought that counts, right? 

_ Sorry _ . It was way easier to say to a dog he had just scared than a guy he was still in love with, still aching for. But of course it was, because he knew Walter would forgive him, and let Chuck hold him until they both felt better. Startling a sleeping dog in a dark room was also way less of an offense than how dirty he did Orange. Chuck had spent the first few months since he left in a forced denial, telling himself he didn't really do anything wrong, and trying to convince himself it wasn't a huge deal that Orange left. But now that he was gone, Chuck finally figured out that he loved him, and he had for a while. Chuck was such a dick over the years. In their early twenties they established they’d just be friends with benefits, only a few months after they became roommates. And Chuck clung to that emotional distancing for all it was worth, which turned out to be about 13 years. There wasn’t enough bourbon in the world to drown out the shame Chuck felt, reminiscing the dozens of times Orange tried to gently take things further, to say what they were both so obviously feeling. That he loved Chuck and, although he didn’t know it yet, Chuck loved him too. 

But no, Chuck’s fucking idiot brain and piece of shit heart managed to keep that one concealed from his conscious mind. He remembered when Orange was under him, barely whispering “Chuck, I love you. I fucking love you.” Like he was pleading for Chuck to say it back, and all Chuck could respond with was kissing him as tender and passionate as he could manage, trying to channel whatever he was feeling through his mouth and convey that he felt the same. If only he could have used his mouth for words one fucking time, Orange may still be with him. 

It was like his body knew what his mind didn’t. That was what drew him to kiss Orange, to hold him all night and fuck him like a honeymooner every chance he got. No part of Chuck ever grew tired of the decade old routine, and he honestly thought they’d keep it up forever. But apparently, Orange didn’t see it that way. 

It was on their last night together that Chuck knew he fucked up for the last time, and realized just how bad he'd been fucking up all these years. He was lost in Orange, fucking him and kissing him and running his hands over every inch of his body like he was searching for something he’d misplaced under his skin. Even now, Chuck had the feeling of that man memorized. His hands could trace a perfectly accurate Orange shaped space in empty air. Every ridge of his chiseled body and every strand of insanely soft, platinum blond hair were committed to muscle memory. Chuck couldn’t remember the names of half his exes, but he remembered every detail of Orange Cassidy.

And he remembered the fragility in his tone that night, that particular stream of “I love you”s that Chuck never had the clarity to return. So he kissed him like he always did. But this time Orange didn’t kiss back. Chuck broke away but let his lips linger, just barely touching Orange’s. Waiting to see if he’d reconnect them, holding his breath and hoping Orange wasn’t stopping him on purpose. Hoping Orange wasn’t upset, like he had every right to be. 

But Orange moved away, just enough to look Chuck in the eyes. “Is that your way of shutting me up?” 

Chuck’s eyes widened, locked onto Orange’s glassy blue irises. “No!” He said, sounding unconvinced himself as his brain and heart once again failed to reach a conclusion about how he felt. As if 13 years wasn’t enough to get his shit straight. 

“Why don’t you ever say it back?” The hurt in his voice broke Chuck’s heart. 

And he knew right then it was over. Because he didn’t have an answer, and he knew his muttered “I don’t know” wouldn’t suffice. 

Orange shook his head, sudden certainty in his voice. “We’re too old for this, Chuck. I don’t want to spend my life waiting for something you’ll never give me.” He was pushing Chuck off of him, and against everything his mind and heart silently wanted his body yielded, kneeling naked on the bed beside Orange and watching him stand. He could only watch the other man grab his clothes off the floor. He wished he could say something, or cry so Orange would know he cared. But he just sat there, watching in silence as the one good thing in his life left him. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry.” There were tears in Orange’s eyes as he shut the door to Chuck’s bedroom, and by morning he was gone. A few days later, he came and got his things. Chuck made sure not to be there for that, even though Orange probably needed help moving his furniture. Chuck came home to find Orange’s room empty and his keys on the table. And that was the end of it. 

Sure,  _ now _ Chuck’s tear ducts figured out how a sane human with functioning emotions responds to that. Laying there hugging Walter, he felt tears filling his stupid eyes and running down his idiot face. All this time, and he still didn’t have a clue what to say or do to fix this. And seeing how Orange is doing just fine (Hell his career’s at an all time high, he’s main eventing on a regular basis and everybody loves him) maybe there’s nothing  _ to _ do. They still worked fine together on Dynamite every week, and Orange showed no signs of unhappiness in front of their friends. He really must have been better off without Chuck selfishly stringing him along anymore. Neither of them even told Trent they split, until Orange casually mentioned he moved out and got his own place. As if that was all that happened, as if it was that simple. Chuck almost could have pretended it was, if not for the pained look Trent shot him, the only guy who knew what Orange was implying there. But if Chuck couldn’t open up to Orange when his life literally depended on it, there was no way Trent would get his feelings out of him. “It’s over. We’re cool though.” And Trent begrudgingly accepted Chuck’s abridged summary of it, politely leaving his support unspoken, because he knew Chuck better than to try getting deeper than a pat on the back and buying his next round. 

It was over. For real, it was over. For the millionth time, Chuck told himself that. There’s no more Gentleman’s Club, there’s no more Chikara, there’s no more him and Orange. This isn’t 2012. Or 2014. Or 2018. Fuck.  _ Fuck _ , Chuck had so long, so many chances to get it right. But it’s like he couldn’t even comprehend what was right in front of him, like it had just quietly built itself up without him noticing. And it took Chuck’s heart being broken, his feelings being shattered like glass for him to understand them for what they were. As if by picking up the pieces of what was left and fumbling for where they fit together, he had finally figured out how love worked. 

He missed seeing Orange every morning when he woke up, the sunlight streaming between his bent and broken blinds he never bothered to replace, illuminating him in bits and pieces. He missed fighting alongside him turning into reckless, inappropriate makeouts in their corner of the locker room where they thought they were being stealthy. He missed driving for hours and hours, going to indie shows all over the country with Orange in the passenger seat, bickering over music when they both had shitty taste anyway. He missed holding him every night. Kissing him and fucking him and laughing with him. He missed the shithole bars they’d get wasted at, and fucking hot and messy in the bathrooms. He missed every damn day of those 13 years they lived together, and he missed Orange more and more every day of this one year they’d spent apart. 

Broken remains of lingering feelings were all Chuck had to figure it out. But looking at the pieces as they were laid out before him, as his mind replayed memory after memory, it was crystal fucking clear. Chuck loved him. He always had. And unfortunately for him, it seemed now like he always will. 

There was nothing he could do now. He picked himself up off the floor, carrying Walter out of the room and shutting the door behind him. It was 1 am, and Chuck was laughably pathetic and drunk and still crying. He texted Trent asking if he knew Orange’s new address. Chuck should just go to bed, and seek help in the morning since he was seemingly never going to get over it. But he had his coat on before Trent even replied. He knew he had no idea where to begin, there weren’t enough words in that frequently concussed brain of his to ever articulate how he felt. Trent sent the address after a minute, asking no questions about why because the answer was fucking obvious. Orange would never take him back, Chuck was fucking heartless the whole time they were together. He scratched Walter behind the ears, laid him down on the couch, and headed for the door. This was only going to hurt, Chuck knew it. He grabbed both sets of keys, and shut the door behind him. 


	2. Blueprints

“ _Elements of a Perfect Apology:_ ” The bold text proclaimed, “ _Because you know that your mistake was a momentary lapse and not a long-term value judgment, you can be sincere. Find a quiet time when you’re less likely to be interrupted and then address the person you’ve wronged._ ” 

Well, this article was assuming a lot. Thirteen years of keeping a man waiting, letting him feel like his feelings are unrequited, is a little longer than a momentary lapse. Chuck had a long walk ahead of him, Orange had put an understandable amount of distance between them and Chuck was way too drunk to drive. He didn’t want to get a cab either, because he was crying when he first left and soaked with rain after about a block. Neither is a state he’d feel good about getting picked up in. 

“ _Say you’re sorry. Not, ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’, just plain ol’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Own the mistake. It’s important to show the other person that you’re willing to take responsibility for your actions._ ” Noted, that was the one the last few websites Chuck checked all led with. He was about halfway there, and so desperate for guidance on what to say that he literally looked up how to apologize on his phone. 

The rest of the list was a lot of the same advice he’d been reading for the past mile. Apparently, in a good apology you talk a lot about what you did wrong, hold back on the excuses, own up that it’s all your fault, and then ask for forgiveness. It all should have been intuitive, honestly, but no form of emotional honesty was ever easy for Chuck. His scattered mind even stooped to the point of opening the notes app and writing ideas for how he’d word shit. “You deserved better.” No, wait. One website said to use “I” statements more than “you”. “I didn’t deserve you.” No! That’s just self pity, like he’s trying to guilt trip him. “I should have been better to you.” He nodded. Yeah. Accepting responsibility. He was pathetically proud of accomplishing seven words in the past… shit, how long had he been walking? Shit! When did he stop walking? 

Chuck was downright embarrassed that what little he’d written had taken so much concentration, he hadn’t even realized he was standing still. And his gut wrenched when he realized he had so much further to go. Not just the physical distance, but in the task of actually preparing a good apology. Thirteen years of being an emotionally unavailable scumbag, then a year of pretending he was fine with Orange leaving. That’s a lot to hope to fix in one conversation. 

He sat on the steps leading up to some random apartment, not caring that they were wet because he was already soaked. Goddamn, as if he wouldn’t have looked pathetic enough dry. He really should have grabbed an umbrella or called for a ride or something. 

Trent picked up his call on the second ring. “How’s it going, man?” Chuck could tell he was trying to mask his concern. 

“I’m not there yet.” He deadpanned. 

“I mean like, how are you doing? Are you good?” 

“I don’t know.” He sighed. He really didn’t know. “How can you tell?”

“Are you crying?” 

“I was before, it was really lame. I don’t think so now though.” 

“Well is your face wet?”

“Yeah, everything is. It’s raining and I’m walking.” 

“Oh dude, sounds like you’re doing pretty bad.” It was exactly the dosage of reality Chuck needed right then. Trent could balance the spinning plates of keeping the tone light, his worry evident but not overwhelming, and the statements blunt enough for Chuck to follow, even being as drunk and stupid as he is. 

“I wish I could fucking borrow your brain right now dude. I have no idea how to talk like a... human fucking... person.” He trailed off, losing that sentence along the way, which demonstrated his point pretty well. 

“You mean like, you need advice?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well your first problem is you don’t say what you mean.” 

“You got that right.” Chuck forced a laugh, but it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t meant to be funny. 

“So fucking say it, pussy.” Trent retorted. 

“What, that I love him?” 

“Yeah. See where it goes from there.” 

“But then what?” Chuck pleaded, he really didn’t want to go in with only three words planned out. 

“Then you fucking listen to whatever he says, and reply based off that. Y’know, like a normal human conversation. Like we’re doing now.” Trent really wasn’t gonna humor Chuck’s bullshit tonight. 

“Uh huh.” Chuck said, his annoyed cadence making it clear that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. 

“Just say whatever you feel. You know you’re sorry, you regret letting him go, you’ve been a sad sack of shit ever since. Say it all, say whatever. You literally couldn’t fuck that up if you tried.” 

“The fuck you mean? I already fucked it up! That’s why he left!” 

“Because you were a pussy! But you’re not a pussy now, you’re gonna man up and tell him how you feel. And he’s gonna take you back because he probably feels the same way.” 

“Trent it’s been a year.” 

“Yeah, it has.” He snapped. “And you’ve both been total bummers the whole time.” 

Chuck sighed. In his mind, he had been doing pretty good at hiding the fact that he wanted to die 24/7. And in his mind, Orange was doing fine. But Chuck knew he wasn’t looking that hard. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d even made eye contact off camera. And half the time, Orange’s face was hidden by shades anyway. The assumption that Orange wasn’t also a bummer was completely baseless, honestly. Chuck was just… clinging to how he’d remembered him, before they split. 

“Chuck? Hey. Dude.” 

“Sorry what? Zoned out.” 

“Look, you got this. Just… don’t wimp out. When he opens the door, say what you mean.” 

“Will do. Thanks.”

“Call me if you need.” 

“Will do.” He repeated. “Thanks.”

“Thank me after you got your boyfriend back.” 

“He was never my boyfriend.” Chuck said to nobody, as Trent hung up after his last line. 

And he was glad he didn’t hear that. Because it was exactly the kind of denial Trent just fucking told Chuck to stop doing. Sure he never said it then, but what else do you call someone you love with all your heart for 14 years? 

Ugh. Chuck pulled himself off the steps and started walking again. This shit was about to get sappy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *holding out my little upside down hat like a street performer* Feedback? Critiques? Advice?
> 
> Work Cited:  
> Hertzberg, K. (2017, August 24). If You Want to Know How to Apologize, First Do This… Retrieved from https://www.grammarly.com/blog/how-to-apologize/


End file.
